


Hostis Humani Generis

by Jmeelee



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, First Kiss, Inspired by Art, M/M, Pirates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:27:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27356491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jmeelee/pseuds/Jmeelee
Summary: “Where is my crew?” Stiles demanded when Derek came close enough.  The words honked through his dry throat and set him coughing.A soft but feral smile twitched over Derek’s bronzed features, slicing a swath through a black beard cut through with streaks of silver. “Ah, the quartermaster finally awakens.  I know it’s damn near impossible for you, but try not to speak. I’ll get you something to drink.”“Untie me, first,” Stiles begged, but Derek only laughed.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 34
Kudos: 306
Collections: Sterek Goodness, Sterek Reverse Quickie 2020





	Hostis Humani Generis

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Sterek Reverse Quickie 2020, inspired by [Clotpolesonly’s](%E2%80%9C) art. Thanks Jess, it was awesome working with you!
> 
> [Find the art here!](https://clotpolesonly.tumblr.com/post/633731513155993600/hostis-humani-generis-by-jmeelee-sterek-4k)
> 
> A giant thank you to [Novemberhush](%E2%80%9C) for the beta read and the friendship. 
> 
> A few lines from this story borrow heavily from Black Sails.

The attack came moments after daybreak.

For days, the _Howler_ dodged the British Royal Navy, barely escaping the first time a minor warship used a storm to sneak up leeward. The lone vessel hunted Scott, Stiles, and their ragtag crew through the Mediterranean and came dogging their heels in the New World, sinking sharp teeth into their small frigate and tearing it to shreds. 

It didn’t matter that Scott’s crew were corsairs instead of pirates, their ship too small to stand for long in the line of battle; when the English saw a threat, they attacked.

There had been no time to get further away from the _Howler_ when Stiles finally gave in and leaped from the deck. The rest of their crew had scaled the nets and left on the lifeboats well before the fires had reached their secured gunpowder stores. But once the cannonballs ripped through the sails and gouged holes in the port, the _Howler_ took on water. As captain, Scott refused to follow his crew overboard until he had fired the last of their twenty-eight guns in a vain attempt at damaging their pursuer, and Stiles, as Quartermaster, refused to leave his Captain—and life-long best friend’s—side.

Stiles had grown up carefully dipping his toes into the treacherous tides of the Gulf of Lion, and the Caribbean sea had been a marvel when he’d first laid eyes on it. Lured by the warm, clear blue waters, he’d agreed to accompany Scott to the island of Martinique, tasked by Lieutenant Admiral Gerard Argent with capturing and arresting the infamous pirate captain Derek Hale. The latter terrorized ports from the Bahamas to the Grenadines. But the alluring, serene sweetness of the Caribbean was as much a delusion as Derek Hale’s boyishly handsome face; the sea waited now with shackles and chains, grabbing at Stiles’ limp limbs with clawed hands, pulling him down. His sudden and violent entrance into the waves, foaming like the maw of a ravenous wolf, turned him around, debris and sudden darkness shattering all his natural senses. His long hair floated out around his head and neck, tendrils creeping across his eyes and wrapping around his throat. Wood and metal plunged into the brutal water around him with thunderous booms. His lungs burned, but he knew if he took a breath, the talons would drag him further from the dim sunlight piercing the ocean surface.

Despite aching, screaming muscles, and his throat straining to force open his mouth, Stiles kicked his legs and slashed his hands through the heavy water, propelling himself toward the surface. The sunlight flashed out of sight as a fast, dark mass dived into the depths, streaking past him so fast he was caught up in the swirling bubbles left in its wake. He watched the path of the sinking cannonball before the darkness below swallowed it whole. 

_They’re still firing._

Stiles moved faster, evading sinking debris. None were bodies, as far as he could tell, but he still mourned; their beautiful ship—their _home_ —was dying a slow, cruel death.

Finally, he broke the surface, pulling in loud gasps of air too shallow to fill his painful lungs. He gaped like a fish, desperately wheezing, turning in circles to get his bearings. Pieces of planking and cloth floated in the undulations of the ocean, more shards raining down around him. He reached for a large wooden pallet to hold his torso out of the water as he kicked further away, still struggling to breathe.

He pushed the mass of his tangled hair away from his eyes and off his forehead, immediately regretting the unobstructed view. Before him, the _Howler_ was a burning mass of gnarled wood, slowly being consumed by hungry waves. He scanned the sea, hoping to spot his crew. The English still focused on the carcass of the _Howler_ , their cumbersome galley plowing slowly along, well away from Stiles on the other side of the sinking ship. 

“There’s another ship on the horizon!” Lieutenant Dunbar had warned when he descended from the magpie’s nest, monocular tucked under his arm. From where he was treading water, Stiles spotted the craft Liam had announced that morning. Scott and Stiles were already immersed in the firefight when the sleek sloop appeared on the horizon. They paid the vessel no attention. But Stiles had _known_ , though he may not have wanted to accept it. Derek Hale always seemed to find them, to find _him_. It was infuriating, considering how vast the waters were and how hard Stiles tried to find Derek first. 

Derek’s black and white flag whipped in the wind, pulled high above the _Sea Wolf’s_ two masts, making relief and concern clash violently in Stiles’ gut. The flag was visible to the English. The Navy would be wondering, just like Stiles, what a wanted pirate such as Derek Hale was doing there. The _Sea Wolf_ collapsed its crisp sails, dumping any wind they may have picked up in favor of remaining as still as a poised predator in the water, while the pirate crew was busy pulling up the lifeboats from the _Howler_.

Drifting on his charred piece of debris, lungs still barely inflating, Stiles saw the dark-haired captain himself reaching out to pat Midshipmen Mason Hewitt’s shoulder as he helped the man step safely onto the sloop’s deck. Scott joined Derek and Mason at the helm, and Stiles saw them gesture wildly back to the sinking ship and where he lay, too tired to swim, barely clinging to consciousness enough not to slip back under the water.

He hoped Hale would spot him amongst the wreckage. It was strange to pray for rescue from a pirate instead of certain death at the hands of the English. He hoped Derek Hale had not followed them just to murder Scott, Stiles, and their crew. He hoped Derek would not remind Stiles of this rescue for the rest of their lives if he did live through this. It was strange to assume they might know each other that long. But, then again, how much longer did any of them have? Perhaps this indeed was how it would all end. 

It was the last thought that flitted through his oxygen-deprived brain before he blacked out.

*****

In his delirious half-dreams, Stiles stood on the quarterdeck of the _Howler_ , their beloved ship complete again, bracing both legs against the boards as the hull split the sea. But instead of Scott below him on the main deck, it was Derek Hale holding the wheel steady, plowing through waters that rose to meet them like an ardent lover, the spray of the ocean peppering his sun-bronzed skin. Though the ship heaved heavier than a whore’s bosom, Derek stood steady on his metal leg. Derek looked up at Stiles in the dream-like limbo, smiling at how the wind made Stiles’ long hair dance. The perfection of the moment settled into Stiles’ bones.

He came awake to that feeling of _rightness_ , finding himself lying on his back between two palm trees on a secluded hamlet, his wrists tied with fraying rope and secured to an iron stake in the ground. His bleary gaze lingered on a brilliant azure sky dabbed with fat white clouds. Gulls called to each other as they picked at drying seaweed at the shore edge, and the wind teased overgrown green fronds above his head. He rolled to his side, watching quiet cerulean water stretch toward him up the soft sand, a constant soothing splash, sending the babbling birds scurrying to safety on their thin legs. A balmy breeze snaked through Stiles’ salt-encrusted curls as he sat up, groaning, shaking sand and the dregs of the dream from his aching head.

_I’m alive,_ he thought gratefully, tugging at his bound wrists to no avail. _But where the hell am I? Where’s my crew?_

Since his first transatlantic venture with Scott five years ago, Stiles had loved the sprinkling of tiny islands that marred the Carribean’s pale blue face, but in all their travels, he’d never come across one as stunning and secluded as this. The beach he laid on stretched on for eternity, white sand as soft as silk between Stiles’ fingers and bare toes. _Where did my shoes go?_ Lush vegetation grew at his back, and the only dwelling Stiles saw stood a few paces away. The small bungalow had two windows cut wide to allow the wind to cool the interior, delicate curtains floating over the exposed openings. Beyond the apertures, Stiles glimpsed a simple oak table weighed down with books, the table surrounded by mismatched seats, and a straw mattress with piles of pillows and coverings in the corner. No one stirred inside, and the disrupted white sand in front of the cabin gave no indication which way the owner—and Stiles’ captor—may have gone. 

A queer noise upset the never-ending rush of the waves and pulled Stiles from his curious perusal. He glanced back toward the shore. 

_I’ve died,_ was Stiles’ first thought. _I’m dead, and the gods are real._

Legendary pirate captain Derek Hale rose from the water, the air shimmering in the heat around him like a mirage, the sea sliding over him like a second skin, one hand gripping a harpoon with a wriggling fish impaled on the end. 

_Poseidon made flesh._

Stiles forced the saliva drowning his tongue to slide down his dry throat. Stiles and Derek had met many times over the years: on ship decks, in the taverns of Tortuga, behind gun barrels. But these meetings took place in full uniform, which for Stiles meant linen breeches, supple boots laced up to his knees, a loose tunic, leather vest, and a rich jacket that looked very much like Derek’s own pirate coat, complete with gold buttons. There was also usually a layer of belts laden with swords and daggers.

But now, gone was Derek’s pirate garb: dark boots, flowing black tunic, belt, leather baldric, patched jacket. Instead, he wore only linen breeches. The saturated cloth was damn near see-through and weighed down at the waist, revealing a tantalizing horizon of pale skin, deep divots cut low into his hips, and a vertical strip of coarse black hair, all of which Derek made no move to hide from Stiles’ sight. He was intent on surveying Stiles, spearing him with stormy green eyes.

Stiles had more in common with the dying fish on Derek’s harpoon than was tolerable. He broke away from the stare, forcing his gaping mouth closed and shutting his eyes, but the sun sparks made by droplets of water streaming down the firm muscle of Derek’s chest branded his eyelids. An unwelcome but familiar feeling welled up inside his ribs, refusing to relinquish its hold on his heart. Their stations and the bounty on Derek’s head always left a false sense of distance between them. Stiles’ sanity existed in that illusory space, but it was all washed away now, and Stiles could hardly breathe.

Derek sloshed through the shore, making his way towards where Stiles was held captive. Derek’s linen pants had been cut above his knees, granting him room to swim without being dragged down by the fabric. His right leg was a line of muscular calf and thigh, but below his left knee was a mass of gnarled scar tissue partly covered by the straps of a boot holding a metal peg leg to his otherwise perfect body. 

Grown men shook at the thought of the violence Captain Hale inflicted with the fake limb he’d made a weapon instead of a detriment. Children told each other ghastly tales around the fire of hearing the threatening thump of the leg as Captain Hale approached and being spirited away in the night, never to see their families again. 

Stiles had never seen the mangled leg up close before; Derek always kept it hidden under his garments and a steady gait. Rumors abound over how the notorious pirate lost the limb: shark attack, debtors price, a scorned lover. Stiles always wondered, and here, in this private tract of land, nothing was stopping him from asking.

“Where is my crew?” Stiles spoke instead when Derek came close enough. The words honked through his dry throat and set him coughing.

A soft but feral smile twitched over Derek’s bronzed features, slicing a swath through a black beard cut through with streaks of silver. “Ah, the quartermaster finally awakens. I know it’s damn near impossible for you, but try not to speak. I’ll get you something to drink.”

“Untie me, first,” Stiles begged, but Derek only laughed.

He made his way to the hut and shortly returned with a dented tin cup filled with clear water that tasted of earth. He held it to Stiles’ lips like a church chalice, and Stiles greedily sucked it down while Derek watched him.

Derek had sought out Stiles’ gaze every time they met. It was Stiles’ undoing. The way Derek looked at Stiles like he was more than a quartermaster. Like Stiles was a leader, someone worth following. He _dreamed_ of the way Derek looked at him, even when he was half dead.

“My crew,” Stiles tried again, with more success. He no longer sounded like he’d gargled shattered glass. “Scott? I saw them boarding your ship…”

“Your crew lives.” Stiles let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “They’re all aboard the _Sea Wolf_. I told Isaac to bring her into port in Saint Vincent and give your men safe passage.”

“Thank you,” Stiles breathed, wishing his hands were free. “Thank you. Now, untie me, please.” It rankled him to beg.

A frown plastered onto Derek’s tanned face. He pulled back the cup. Stiles prayed Derek didn’t notice the way he shivered when Derek’s fingers mistakenly caressed Stiles’ chin. "I told you the Argents weren’t to be trusted. Yet, here I find you and McCall, doing their dirty work," he angrily spat. With a burst of fury, he threw the cup into the forest behind the hut. “What has it gotten you? The riches he promised for bringing me to _justice_? No. It brought the goddamn English Navy down on your heads, and you almost died.” 

"Where are we? Why did you bring me here instead of leaving me with Scott and the _Howler_ crew?" The breeze whipped Stiles’ brown curls against his sun-reddened cheeks, one strand catching on the corner of Stiles’ water-wet mouth. The mane of wild unruly ringlets was often more trouble than it was worth, but Stiles’ vanity prevented him from cutting it. Derek reached up a finger and brushed the stray strand away, and Stiles’ skin caught fire.

"Don't change the subject, Stiles."

His chest constricted. In the years they’d know each other, Stiles could count on one hand the number of times Derek Hale said Stiles’ name aloud. Instead, he’d mockingly referring to him as Quartermaster Stilinski, showing him none of the respect the title commanded. One memorable time Derek called him Scott McCall’s matelot. Scott had landed one good punch to Derek’s chin before the pirate had slipped his chains and dived from the deck of the _Howler_. Derek Hale was slippery as an eel and possessed more lives than a cat.

"I'm not arguing with you about Scott’s orders," Stiles huffed, coughing a bit from the stale air in his lungs. “They’re the same as they’ve always been, and this kidnapping you call a rescue will make no difference. Now, UNTIE ME!”

Derek shook his head. “I should have gone with my gut instinct and gagged you as well.”

Stiles harrumphed. “Payback for that time on Port Royal?” Their eyes locked, rum-soaked memories passing silently between them. Derek tied to a wooden pillar in the bay; the tide slowly covering his chin, his rag-stifled mouth, his nose. The feel of Derek’s strong hand in his as Stiles pulled his heavy ass into the rescue boat. Derek’s greedy, grateful breath when Stiles had slipped the salt-water soaked handkerchief from between Derek’s lips. It had been two years since that fateful night when Stiles snuck away, left his brothers at a tavern, drowning in wine and women. All because he’d heard a passing rumor, an upstart Jamaican governor was sentencing a notorious pirate to a slow, agonizing death to solidify his ruthless reputation. Any number of pirates could have been tied to that piller: Blackbeard, Calico Jack, Charles Vane, or Edward Low. But Stiles knew. He just _knew_. 

As quick as it came, the whirlwind of Stiles’ anger departed, and he slumped limply into the sand like sails in the doldrums. Derek lay down next to him on his back, one knee bent and the other, the ruined leg, stretched out. The drying linen of his pants slipped up his thigh, exposing more skin. “This dream Scott chases doesn’t lead where he thinks.”

“With him married to Allison Argent?” Stiles had had his doubts over the years but refused to voice them. Doing so felt like a betrayal to his Captain and best friend. “A gaggle of children and a hound or two? A chateau in the countryside? At least he has a dream.”

Derek sighed. “I have dreams, Stiles.”

“Of ships to raid and ports to ravish? People to terrorize?”

Derek ignored his barb. “What do you dream of?” He asked. 

_You_. “Freedom.”

He stayed silent in the wake of the word. Then, “Stiles, civilization will never let men like _us_ be free. You must know this. You’re too smart not to know this.” 

_Men like us._ Stiles had known Derek was like him; in the way he’d always known he was different than other men. In the same way he’d known Derek was the pirate Governor Morgan hoped to make an example of, and the _Sea Wolf_ was the ship rescuing them that morning.

“Allison Argent may be a lovely woman, but Gerard will rot in hell before he lets a common sailor with no pedigree like McCall marry his only granddaughter. The English see no difference between corsairs and pirates, and Argent knows that. He knew the chances of Scott returning to claim Allison were piffling. And if Scott happened to succeed, Gerard would find some other way to remove him. That family, they…” Derek rolled to his side, ran a hand up Stiles’ arm to his shoulder, raising gooseflesh. He looked deep into Stiles’ eyes. “They _ruin_ people.”

Stiles blinked, needing a moment’s reprieve from Derek’s intense stare. He remembered the portrait of Derek Hale, his first glimpse of the man, dressed in a ceremonial embroidered blue coat, white facings, white breeches, and stockings. Derek gazed out from the portrait between Gerard Argent’s gnarled fingers, full of pride. “This is him,” Gerard sneered. “The pirate. The degenerate. The _monster_. I want you to drag Derek Hale back across the Atlantic so I can stick a dagger through his guts.” 

“Like they ruined you?” Like a coward, Stiles kept his eyes closed. He’d long suspected the Argents were at the root of Derek’s defection from the Navy. 

The ropes around his wrists pulled tight, and he cracked opened his eyes in time to see Derek’s cutlass slice through the cords. Derek laid the short sword between them and pushed awkwardly to standing, his fake leg hindering the motion’s smoothness. “There’s a rowboat anchored half a league down the shore. Take it and return to your crew. Chase your freedom. I hope you find it.” 

Derek walked away, leaving his dead catch and his sharp sword and Stiles behind him. 

Stiles knew a dismissal when he saw one, but he’d never been able to take a hint. “Did he do it?” Stiles shouted, hot sand shifting under his knees as he climbed to his feet, tracking Derek closer to his hut. “Did Gerard take your leg?”

Derek spun abruptly, and Stiles didn’t have time to stop before he crashed into him. He would have lost his balance, except for Derek’s hand snaking out to clasp his elbow. A flutter jerked in his belly at the physical connection. He dared not name it, the way his heart spiked into his throat whenever he was in Derek’s presence, the way the pirate captain looked at Stiles like he’d stolen Derek Hale’s soul. If he named it, even in his mind, it would be real.

Derek stepped into the hair's-breadth of space between them, his hand never leaving Stiles’ arm, and Stiles stood firm, despite the way his mind shattered. “Not Gerard,” Derek whispered. “Kate.”

Kate Argent. Gerard’s daughter and Allison’s aunt, a woman every bit as brutal as Gerard but lacking the social constraints. He’d married her off to a wealthy nobleman in Paris, and within months Kate’s husband and half their household were dead. Allison whispered rumors about her to Scott, how her deceased husband's wealth funded Kate’s vicious appetites. How it wasn’t the first time Kate’s suitors had ended up dead. 

“She took it all. My family, my name, my body.” Derek stared at him, mouth a hard line. “She made me a one-legged creature.” He expected Stiles to agree, to say horrible things in return, to tell Derek he deserved his misfortunes. But Stiles wouldn’t because it was untrue.

“She _didn’t_ ruin you.” 

Derek opened his mouth, but Stiles cut him off. “She didn’t.” Stiles reached down, ran the tip of his index finger feather-light along the edge of the leather strap holding Derek’s prosthetic in place. “She may have tried, but she failed. The man standing before me is _whole_. His name strikes fear into the hearts of men around the world. His name is so powerful, Gerard Argent sent a crew of privateers to blot that name from the history books. We’ve chased him for years, but we couldn’t do it. And your family…” Stiles stopped, grimaced. He’d read about the fire that took Derek’s family a fortnight before he boarded a ship to the New World. “We can’t bring them back, but I’ve learned that family is more than blood.” He glanced around the island, at Derek’s crudely constructed hut, thought of the _Howler_ in her wet grave at the bottom of the sea. “Home is more than the place you rest your head. It’s the people you love. It’s the people who love you.” 

I _could be your family, and you could be mine._

Stiles could not say with whom the act began, but the kiss that followed between them had Stiles drowning all over again. Stiles had never experienced a kiss so compromising in his whole life. Their limbs slid tightly together like fingers on praying hands, leaving no space for their chaotic past, the game of chase finally at an end. Derek held him, his sun-warmed naked chest pressed against the threadbare cloth of Stiles’ white shirt, boiling the blood in his veins. He panted, incredulous at the sensation and the shock flowing through his body. Had he been more cognizant, Stiles may have followed the fleeting sense to pull away that danced across the stage of his mind, that warned him men had died for such acts, but Derek was everywhere in his head, and aching need kept Stiles rooted beneath Derek’s calloused hands. Derek deepened the kiss, leaving an intoxicating mixture of salt and a rum-like burn haunting the tip of Stiles’ tongue. Any thoughts of protest departed him in a gratified sigh, and Derek crushed himself against Stiles’ form, overtaking his hesitation.

Derek’s one hand ran down Stiles’ back, pressing their hips and lower bodies closer. The other hand sank in his hair, tangling in his curls. The evidence of Derek’s desire dug into Stiles’ hip, and Derek snaked the thigh of his ruined leg between Stiles’ own and rubbed at him shamelessly. 

They finally broke their kiss with a wet sound. “I have dreams,” Derek panted into Stiles’ ruined mouth. “To wage war on the Argents, on everything they stand for. I won’t be distorted to fit their narrative any longer. And I won’t be satisfied with only one night with you. It’s a dark road to travel, Stiles, but if you come with me, we can be free together.”

For better or for worse, Stiles was now as much a pirate as Derek was. _Hostis humani generis_. Enemies to all mankind. Scott’s love for Allison, two navies, and the Atlantic Ocean stood between Stiles and Derek, but here, on this deserted slip of paradise, he and Derek could just _be_. Those were battles for another day. 

“Then take two, take three, take them all.” Stiles led the way to Derek’s hut on instinct alone. His hands and mouth and eyes were busy. “They’re all yours.”

There were always wars to fight, freedom to win. For now, the world and all its violence could wait.

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I'm Jamie! Thanks for reading <3


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